Heartstrings

Chapter 1: The Warrior’s Return

The banners flew high, golden lions embroidered on crimson silk, snapping in the humid breeze as the gates of Kaanthalur creaked open.

Veeran didn’t flinch.

He sat tall on his stallion, armor dulled by travel dust and dried blood, his face unreadable beneath the bronze helm pushed halfway back on his head. Behind him, rows of soldiers—some limping, others bandaged—entered the city with bowed heads and sunburnt skin.

To the crowd, this was a procession of victory.

To Veeran, it was a funeral without a corpse.

He said nothing as flowers rained from rooftops and children cheered his name. His black horse trotted forward with discipline, hooves striking the cobblestones in perfect rhythm. The animal needed no guidance—it had memorized this route long ago.

Beside him, a pale figure stalked silently: Sura, the white tiger, paws silent despite his size. The crowd gasped, some drawing back in fear, others throwing garlands.

Veeran barely noticed.

His gaze swept over the same houses, the same temples, the same scent of wet earth and sandalwood rising from incense stalls. But something in him stayed far away.

He was still in the last battlefield, where screams echoed louder than drums, where he had held a dying soldier whose name he never learned. Where he had plunged a spear into a prince’s chest—and whispered an apology after.

His mind hadn't returned to Kaanthalur.

Only his body had.

---

The palace gates opened to fanfare.

Veeran dismounted without a word, removing his helmet and handing it off to a servant. His shoulder-length hair clung to his neck, damp with sweat. Soora followed behind him with the calm grace of a creature who had seen too many wars to fear gold or silk.

Inside, nothing had changed.

The pillars still bore the same carvings—lions devouring serpents, gods with six arms in mid-blessing, battles immortalized in stone. The air smelled of rose water and stone polish.

Waiting at the far end of the hall stood the King, Veeran’s father. Crowned, still, with eyes like flint and a back that had never once bowed—not even to grief.

You’ve returned, the King said.

Veeran bowed slightly. With half the men we left with.

A pause.

The King nodded once, as if numbers were expected casualties, not names. You will speak to the council at dawn. There is to be a marriage before the rains.

Veeran looked up, something cold flickering behind his dark eyes.

“Already?”

“You have been gone two years. The princess has waited long enough.”

A servant stepped forward to announce, “Princess Mithili has arrived in the capital and awaits your audience.”

Veeran dismissed him with a hand wave. He said nothing.

The King narrowed his gaze. Duty is not optional, Veeran. You may be my son, but the throne will not wait forever.

“No\,” Veeran said\, stepping back. “But *I* might.”

Before the King could answer, he turned and walked away.

Veeran’s chambers were untouched. Not a pillow moved. Not a scroll misplaced.

He pulled off his armor piece by piece, placing each plate on the polished marble with practiced ease. The room was silent except for Soora’s breathing and the distant sound of _bells from the temple across the river.

He poured water into a bronze bowl and splashed his face, the cold biting through exhaustion. He stared at himself in the mirror—sharp cheekbones, thin scar across his lower lip, eyes hollow and rimmed red.

He hated this reflection. This is not how he want to live.

And yet, when he stepped to the balcony, something caught his attention.

Across the city, where the temple roofs shimmered in moonlight, a small flame flickered.

A figure moved behind the screen of Thamara Kovil—fluid, slow, and precise.

Veeran narrowed his eyes.

Dancer.

He’d seen many. None ever made his breath still.

But this one… danced like water mourning the fire it could not touch.

Even from this distance, something in the curve of the arms, the sway of the body, the poise in silence pulled at him. Not desire. Not yet.

Curiosity.

A voice behind him murmured:

For the Summer Blessing, the temple sends their most gifted scholar to perform the divine rites.